UC-NRLF 


SB    E7E    71fl 


THE  BROADWAY  ANTHOLOGY 

By 

EDWARD  L.  BERNAYS 
SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 
WALTER  J.  KINGSLEY 
MURDOCK  PEMBERTON 


THE 
BROADWAY  ANTHOLOGY 


The 

Broadway  Anthology 


BY 

EDWARD  L.  BERNAYS 
SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 
WALTER  J.  KINGSLEY 
MURDOCK  PEMBERTON 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
BY  DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


VAIL-BALLOU    COMPANY 
•INOHAMTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


Acknowledgment  is  due  to  the  New  York  Evening 
Post,  Sun,  Times,  Tribune,  the  Boston  Transcript 
and  the  Wilmarth  Publishing  Company  for  their  kind 
permission  to  reprint  some  of  the  matter  in  this  volume. 


Ml.81642 


CONTENTS 

EDWARD  L.  BERNAYS 

PAGE 

ACCIDENTS  WILL  HAPPEN 3 

THE  BARITONE 4 

PATRIOTISM 5 

THE  PILLOW  CASES 6 

BETTER  INDUSTRIAL  RELATIONS 8 

THE  PRIMA  DONNA 9 

PRESS  STORIES 10 

THE  DISTRIBUTION  OF  CREDIT n 

TEARS *     .  12 

PHOTOGRAPHS        13 

SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 

THE  THEATRE  SCRUBWOMAN  DREAMS  A  DREAM     ...  17 
THE  STRANGE  CASE  OF  THE  MUSICAL  COMEDY  STAR  .     .18 

THE  STAR  Is  WAITING  TO  SEE  THE  MANAGER  ....  19 

THE  JESTER 21 

IN  A  CAFE 22 

To    A    CABARET    SINGER 23 

IN  THE  THEATRE 24 

WALTER  J.  KINGSLEY 

Lo,  THE  PRESS  AGENT 27 

FIRST  NIGHTS 30 


PAGE 

THE  DRAMATIST 33 

TYPES 35 

GEORGE  M.  COHAN 36 

DAVID  BELASCO 40 

Lo,  THE  HEADLINER 43 

MURDOCK  PEMBERTON 

THE  SCREEN 47 

BROADWAY  —  NIGHT 49 

MATINEE 50 

PAVLOWA 52 

THE  OLD  CHORUS  MAN 55 

BLUCH  LANDOLF'S  TALE 56 

PRE-EMINENCE           .  60 


EDWARD  L.  BERNAYS 


ACCIDENTS  WILL  HAPPEN      /  ,  \ 

He  was  a  burly  Dutch  tenor, 

And  I  patiently  trailed  him  in  his  waking  and  sleep 
ing  hours 

That  I  might  not  lose  a  story, — 

But  his  life  was  commonplace  and  unimaginative  — 

Air  raids  and  abdications  kept  his  activities, 

(A  game  of  bridge  yesterday,  a  ride  to  Tarry  town), 

Out  of  the  papers. 

I  watchfully  waited, 

Yearning  a  coup  that  would  place  him  on  the 

Musical  map. 

A  coup,  such  as  kissing  a  Marshal  Joffre, 

Aeroplaning  over  the  bay, 

Diving  with  Annette  Kellerman. 

Then  for  three  days  I  quit  the  city 

To  get  a  simple  contralto  into  the  western  papers. 

Returning  I  entered  my  office;  the  phone  jangled. 

The  burly  tenor  was  tearfully  sobbing  and  moaning 
over  the  wire; 

Tremor  and  emotion  choked  his  throat. 

This  was  his  ominous  message: 

A  taxicab  accident  almost  had  killed  him  two  and  one 
half  days  ago ; 

He  had  escaped  with  his  body  and  orchid-lined  voice  — 

And  not  a  line  in  the  mornings  or  evenings! 

What  could  I  do  about  it? 

Accidents  will  happen. 


THE  BARITONE 

He  was  a  wonderful  Metropolitan  singer. 

His  name  had  been  blazoned  over  these  United  States, 

And  in  Europe  it  was  as  well  known. 

Records  of  him  could  be  bought  in  the  smallest  hamlet ; 

Nothing  but  praise  had  been  shed  upon  the  glory  of  his 
name. 

In  May  he  was  scheduled  to  sing  in  Chicago 

At  a  festival  where  thousands  were  to  foregather 

To  do  praise  to  him  and  his  voice. 

Two  days  before  he  left,  he  came  to  his  manager's 
office 

With  a  sickly  expression  all  over  his  rotund  face 

And  a  deathly  gasp  in  his  voice. 

One  thought  he  needed  a  doctor, 

Or  the  first  aid  of  some  Red  Cross  nurses. 

He  was  ushered  into  the  private  office 

To  find  out  his  trouble. 

This  was  his  lament  in  short ; 

A  friend,  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment, 

Had  procured  tickets  for  him  on  the  Twentieth  Cen 
tury 

Which  demanded  an  extra  fare  of  six  dollars, — 

And  he  wanted  to  ride  on  the  cheapest  train. 

So  we  got  him  tickets  on  another  road 

Which  takes  thirty  six  hours  to  Chicago  and  perhaps 
more, 

And  the  great  singer,  whose  name  has  been  blazoned 
over  these  United  States 

And  was  as  well  known  in  Europe, 

Walked  out  contented  and  smiling  like  a  young  boy. 

4 


PATRIOTISM 

The  patriotic  orchestra  of  eighty  five  men 

Was  keyed  to  an  extraordinary  patriotic  pitch 

For  these  were  patriotic  concerts, 

Supported  by  the  leading  patriots  of  the  town, 

(Including  a  Bulgarian  merchant,  an  Austrian  phy 
sician  and  a  German  lawyer) , 

And  all  the  musicians  were  getting  union  wages  —  and 
in  the  summer  at  that. 

So  they  were  patriotic  too. 

The  Welsh  conductor  was  also  patriotic, 

For  his  name  on  the  program  was  larger  than  that  of 
the  date  or  the  hall, 

But  when  the  manager  asked  him  to  play  a  number 

Designated  as  "  Dixie," 

He  disposed  of  it  shortly  with  the  words : 

"  It  is  too  trivial  —  that  music." 

And,  instead,  he  played  a  lullaby  by  an  unknown  Welsh 
composer, — 

(Because  he  was  a  Welshman).  .  .  . 

The  audience  left  after  the  concert  was  over 

And  complimented  itself  individually  and  collectively 
on  "  doing  its  bit  " 

By  attending  and  listening  to  these  patriotic  concerts. 


THE  PILLOW  CASES 

The  train  was  due  to  arrive  at  eleven  that  night, 

But  owing  to  the  usual  delay  it  did  not  arrive  until  one. 

The  reporters  of  the  leading  dailies 

Were  still  waiting  grouchily  on  the  station  platform 

for  the  great  star. 

For  weeks  his  name  had  blotted  out  every  bare  wall, 
And  the  date  sheets  of  his  coming  had  reddened  the 

horizon. 

Now  he  steps  off  the  train,  tired  and  disgruntled. 
What  cares  he  for  the  praise  of  the  public  and  their 

prophets 

Awaiting  him  impatiently  at  the  station  ? 
It's  a  bed  he  wants  —  any  bed  will  do  ; 
The  quicker  he  gets  it,  the  better  for  the  song  on  the 

morrow. 

But  in  cooking  the  news  for  the  public 
One  a.  m.  is  the  same  thing  as  noon  day. 
So  they  rushed  the  star  with  these  questions: 
"  Not  conscripted  yet?  .  .  ." 
"  How  do  you  like  this  town?  .  .  ." 
"  Will  you  give  any  encores  tomorrow?  .  .  ." 
"  When  will  the  war  end?  .  .  ." 
Ruthlessly  he  plowed  through  them, 
Like' a  British  tank  at  Messines. 
The  tenor  wanted  a  bed, 
But  Lesville  wanted  a  story.  .  .  . 
On   the  platform   patiently   nestled  were  twenty  six 

pieces  of  luggage, 
Twenty  six  pieces  of  luggage,  containing  more  than 

their  content, 

6 


Twenty  six  pieces  of  luggage  would  get  him  the  story, 

he  had  not  given  himself. 
Craftily,  one  lured  the  reporters  to  look  on  this  bulging 

baggage, 

"  Pillows  and  pillows  and  pillows  .  .  ."  was  whispered, 
"  Tonight  he  will  sleep  on  them." 
Vulture-like  swooped  down  the  porters, 
Bearing  them  off  to  the  taxis. 
Next  morning  the  papers  carried  the  story : 
"  Singer  Transports  His  Own  Bedding," 
But  the  artist  slept  soundly  on  Ostermoors  that  night. 
The  baggage  held  scores  for  the  orchestra. 


BETTER  INDUSTRIAL  RELATIONS 

He  was  the  head  of  a  large  real  estate  firm, 

And  his  avocation  was  seeking  the  good  in  a  Better  In 
dustrial  Relations  Society. 

They  were  going  to  have  an  exhibit  in  their  church 
building, 

At  which  it  was  to  be  proved 

That  giving  a  gold  watch  for  an  invention 

That  made  millions  for  the  factory  owner 

Was  worthwhile. 

But  they  needed  a  press  agent 

To  let  the  world  and  themselves 

Know  that  what  they  were  doing  was  good. 

I  was  chosen  for  the  work, 

But  the  head  of  the  large  real  estate  firm 

Thought  that  half  a  column  a  day  was  too  little 

To  record  the  fact  that  a  cash  register  company 

In  which  he  owned  stock 

Had  presented  a  medal  to  an  employee  who  had  re 
mained  with  them 

At  the  same  salary  for  fifteen  years. 

So  he  had  me  fired. 

And  the  Better  Industrial  Relations  Exhibit  was  a  great 
success. 

And  many  of  the  morning  and  evening  newspapers 

Ran  editorials  about  it. 


THE  PRIMA  DONNA 

She  had  been  interviewed  at  all  possible  times, — 

And  sometimes  the  interviews  came  at  impossible 
ones ; 

But  it  did  not  matter  to  her 

As  long  as  the  stories  were  printed  and  her  name  was 
spelt  correctly. 

So  we  sent  a  photographer  to  the  hotel  one  day 

To  take  pictures  of  her  in  her  drawing  room. 

He  was  an  ungentle  photographer 

Who  had  been  accustomed  to  take  pictures  of  young 
women 

Coming  into  the  harbor  on  shipboard,  and  no  photo 
graph  was  complete 

Without  limbs  being  crossed  or  suchwise. 

But  she  did  not  mind  even  that, 

If  the  pictures  were  published  the  next  day. 

He  took  a  great  number  of  her  in  her  salon, 

And  departed  happy  at  the  day's  bagging. 

A  great  international  disturbance  reduced  all  the  white 
space  available 

And  no  photographs  were  printed  the  next  day 

Of  the  prima  donna. 

And  when  I  met  her  at  rehearsal,  she  said  very  shortly : 

"  Je  vous  ne  parle  plus  "  and  looked  at  me  harshly. 

Was  I  to  blame  for  the  international  situation? 


PRESS  STORIES 

Though  bandsmen's  notes  from  the  street  below  re 
sound, 
And  the  voices  of  jubilant  masses  proclaim  a  glorious 

holiday, 

I  painstakingly  pick  out  words  on  the  typewriter, 
By  fits  and  starts,  thinking  up  a  story  about  the  great 

Metropolitan  tenor. 

The  typewriter  keys  now  hold  no  rhythmic  tingle. 
But  the  local  manager  in  Iowa  wants  the  story. 
He  has  engaged  the  great  tenor  for  a  date  next  March 
When  the  Tuesday  musicale  ladies  give  their  annual 

benefit  for  the  Shriners. 
He  wants  the  concert  to  be  such  a  success, 
That  his  lowan  town  will  henceforth  be  in  the  fore 
ground 

Of  lowan  towns,  as  far  as  music  is  concerned. 
So  he  has  wired  in  for  this  tale  about  the  singer, 
A  story  about  his  wife  and  baby,  and  what  the  baby 

eats  per  diem. 

And  though  the  call  is  to  the  street  below, 
Where  jubilant  masses  proclaim  the  holiday, 
I  must  finish  the  story  about  the  tenor's  wife  and  baby 
To  put  the  lowan  town  in  the  foreground,  as  far  as 
music  is  concerned. 


10 


THE  DISTRIBUTION  OF  CREDIT 

The  Irish  prize  play  had  come  back  to  Broadway. 

Where  to  put  the  credit?     On  the  astute  manager 

Who  saw  in  it 

A  year  of  Broadway,  two  of  stock,  eternity  in  the 
movies  ; 

Or  the  League  of  Public  Spirited  Women 

Banded  together  to  uplift  the  Drama  — 

That  was  the  question  stirring  dramatic  circles  and  the 
public. 

It  had  failed  in  its  first  run  of  three  weeks  at  an  up 
town  theatre 

Miserably, 

Despite  glowing  reviews  in  all  the  dailies. 

But  this  come-back  « 

At  a  Broadway  theatre,  with  electric  lights,  and  tran 
sient  crowds 

That  would  save  it  — 

Was  the  universal  verdict. 

During  the  first  week  there  was  a  tremendous  fight 

Between  the  two  factions  for  the 

Distribution  of  credit,  and  some  critics  said 

The  League  of  Public  Spirited  Women  was  responsible 

For  bringing  the  play  back,  because  they  had  bulletined 
it, 

And  others  said  it  was  the  astute  manager. 

But  no  audience  came  to  the  play  after  the  second  week. 

And  it  went  to  the  storehouse. 

No  one  fought  any  longer  for 

The  distribution  of  credit. 


II 


TEARS 

Beads  of  perspiration  on  a  hot  summer's  afternoon, 

A  hurry  call  from  the  Ritz, 

Thoughts  of  plastering  the  city  in  half  an  hour, 

With  twenty-four  sheets  and  large  heralds, 

And  a  page  or  two  in  all  the  dailies.  .  .  . 

She  sat  in  a  sumptuous  suite  at  the  Ritz, 

Discussing  with  her  husband, 

Who  had  just   returned   from   the   beagles   in  South 

Carolina 

Her  new  pet  charity; 

And  she  had  called  me  in  at  this  very  moment, 
Because  she  had  struck  a  snag. 
This  was  her  charity: 
She  related  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
What  was  she  to  do  about  it? 
She  received  no  response  from  the  American  public. 
The  poor  assistant  stagehands  of  the  Paris  theatres 
They  were  out  of  work  —  destitute  — 
The  theatres  closed  —  and  all  the  actors  at  the  front. 
But  what  could   be  done  for  them,   the  poor  Paris 

stagehands  ? 
That  was  her  query. 

And  tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes,  as  she  spoke 
While  her  husband  chased  the  Angora  from  under  the 

sofa  — 

I  sat  and  discussed  the  question. 
And  tears  came  to  my  eyes, 
But  my  tears  were  wept  for  another  reason. 


12 


PHOTOGRAPHS 

I  had  ordered  the  photographs  of  the  prima  donna. 

They  are  lovely  and  beautiful  to  behold  and  they  arc 
printed  before  me  in  a  magazine. 

Her  madonna  like  face  sheds  radiance  on  the  prospec 
tive  box-office  patron; 

He  is  dazzled  by  her  sun-like  head  of  hair; 

He  loses  his  heart  and  his  pocket-book  when  he  glances 
on  them. 

I  felt  happy  that  I  changed  photographers. 

I  felt  that  my  discovery  of  a  new  artisan  of  the  sensi 
tized  plate 

Would  bring  glory  and  money  to  many. 

I  sit  by  the  rolltop  desk  and  pull  out  again  the  objects 
of  my  praises. 

The  telephone  bell  rings  and  awakens  me  from  my 
reveries, — 

It  is  the  voice  of  the  beautiful  prima  donna  herself; 

But  the  melodious  notes  the  critics  have  praised  are 
changed. 

There  is  a  raucous,  strident  tone  in  the  voice; 

It  sounds  like  the  rasping  bark  of  the  harpies. 

"  How  dare  you  use  those  terrible  photographs? 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  insulting  my  beauty?  " 

There  is  a  slam  down  of  the  telephone  receiver, — 

I  turn  to  my  work  of  writing  an  advertisement  about 
the  prima  donna's  voice. 


SAMUEL  HOFFENSTEIN 


THE  THEATRE  SCRUBWOMAN 
DREAMS  A  DREAM 

When  morning  mingles  with  the  gloom 
On  empty  stage  and  twilit  aisle, 
She  comes  with  rag  and  pan  and  broom 
To  work  —  and  dream  awhile. 

Illusion's  laughter,  fancy's  tears, 
The  mimic  loves  of  yesternight, 
On  empty  stages  of  the  years 
Awake  in  the  dim  light. 

She  cannot  sweep  the  phantoms  out  — 
How  sweet  the  sobbing  violin !  — 
She  cannot  put  the  ghosts  to  rout  — 
How  pale  the  heroine ! 

Oh !  valiant  hero,  sorely  tried !  — 
'Tis  only  dust  that  fills  her  eyes  — 
But  he  shall  have  his  lovely  bride 
And  she  her  paradise ! 

And  she  —  the  broom  falls  from  her  hands, 
And  is  it  dust  that  fills  her  eyes?  — 
Shall  go  with  him  to  golden  lands 
And  find  her  paradise !  — 

The  morning  wrestles  with  the  gloom 
On  silent  stage  and  chilly  aisle, 
She  takes  her  rag  and  pan  and  broom 
To  work  —  and  dream  awhile ! 
17 


THE  STRANGE  CASE  OF  THE  MUSICAL 
COMEDY  STAR 

The  lady  cannot  sing  a  note, 
There  is  a  languor  in  her  throat 
Beyond  all  healing, 
She  does  not  act  at  all,  it  seems, 
Except  in  early  morning  dreams  — 
She  lacks  the  feeling. 

Her  feet  are  pretty,  but  methinks, 
•       The  weighty  and  phlegmatic  Sphinx 
Could  trip  as  lightly  — 
And  yet  she  is  a  regular, 
Serene  and  well  established  star 
Who  twinkles  nightly. 

And  Solomon  for  all  his  stir, 
Had  not  a  single  jewel  on  her, 
Nor  did  his  capers 
Procure  him  even  half  the  space 
For  publication  of  his  face 
In  ancient  papers. 

Her  gowns,  her  furs,  her  limousines 
Would  catch  the  eye  of  stately  queens 
In  any  city  — 

She  cannot  sing,  or  dance  or  act, 
But  then  I  have  remarked  the  fact  — 
Her  feet  are  pretty. 


18 


THE  STAR  IS  WAITING  TO  SEE  THE 
MANAGER 

A  moment  since,  the  office  boy, 
Invisible  as  Night  itself, 
Reposed  on  some  dim-curtained  shelf 
And  tasted  peace,  without  alloy. 

Secure  from  all  the  day's  alarms, 
Of  boss  and  bell  the  very  jinx, 
He  gazed  immobile  as  the  Sphinx 
On  pompous  front  and  painted  charms. 

Now  out  of  interstellar  space, 
Beyond  the  sunlight  and  the  storm, 
Appears  that  lightning-laden  form, 
That  toothful  smile,  that  cryptic  face. 

Whence  came  he,  who  that  breathes  can  tell? 
He  was  so  hid  from  mortal  eyes, 
Perhaps  he  fell  from  paradise, 
Perhaps  they  chased  him  out  of  hell. 

But  now  his  heels  show  everywhere, 
A  dozen  doors  are  opened  wide, 
He  stands  before,  behind,  beside, 
He  fills  the  ether  and  the  air. 

Far  quicker  than  a  wink  or  beck, 
Far  sleeker  than  a  juvenile, 
He  barely  tops  the  giant  smile 
That  wreathes  his  forehead  and  his  neck. 
19 


Oh!  sudden  gold  evolved  from  dross! 
Who  wrought  the  shining  miracle  ? 
What  magic  cast  the  dazzling  spell?  — 
The  star  is  here  to  see  the  boss ! 


2O 


THE  JESTER 


All  the  fool's  gold  of  the  world, 
All  your  dusty  pageantries, 
All  your  reeking  praise  of  Self, 
All  your  wise  men's  sophistries, 
All  that  springs  of  golden  birth, 
Is  not  half  the  jester's  worth! 

Who's  the  jester?     He  is  one, 

Who  behind  the  scenes  hath  been, 

Caught  Life  with  his  make-up  off, 

Found  him  but  a  harlequin 

Cast  to  play  a  tragic  part  — 

And  the  two  laughed,  heart  to  heart ! 


21 


IN  A  CAFE 

Her  face  was  the  face  of  Age,  with  a  pitiful  smudge  of 

Youth, 
Carmine  and  heavy  and  lined,  like  a  jester's  mask  on 

Truth; 
And  she  laughed  from  the  red  lips  outward,  the  laugh 

of  the  brave  who  die, 
But  a  ghost  in  her  laughter  murmured,  "  I  lie  —  I  lie!  " 

She  pressed  the  glass  to  her  lips  as  one  presses  the  lips 

of  love, 
And  I  said :     "  Are  you  always  merry,  and  what  is  the 

art  thereof  ?  " 
And  she  laughed  from  the  red  lips  outward  the  laugh 

of  the  brave  who  die, 
But  a  ghost  in  her  laughter  murmured,  "  I  lie  —  I  lie!  " 


22 


TO  A  CABARET  SINGER 

Painted  little  singer  of  a  painted  song, 

Painted  little  butterfly  of  a  painted  day, 

The  false  blooms  in  your  tresses,  the  spangles  on  your 
dresses, 

The  cold  of  your  caresses, 

I'll  tell  you  what  they  say — 

"  The  glass  is  at  my  lips,  but  the  wine  is  far  away, 

The  music's  in  my  throat,  but  my  soul  no  song  con 
fesses, 

The  laughter's  on  my  tongue,  but  my  heart  is  clay." 

Scarlet  little  dreamer  of  a  frozen  dream, 

Whirling  bit  of  tinsel  on  the  troubled  spray, 

'Tis  not  your  hair's  dead  roses  (your  sunless,  scentless 

roses) 

'Tis  not  your  sham  sad  poses 
That  tell  your  hollow  day  — 
The  glass  is  at  my  lips,  but  the  wine  is  far  away, 
The  music's  in  my  throat,  but  my  soul  no  song  discloses, 
The  laughter's  on  my  tongue,  but  my  heart  is  clay. 


IN  THE  THEATRE 

Weep  not,  fair  lady,  for  the  false, 
The  fickle  love's  rememberance, 
^      What  though  another  claim  the  waltz  — 
The  curtain  soon  will  close  the  dance. 

Grieve  not,  pale  lover,  for  the  sweet, 
Wild  moment  of  thy  vanished  bliss ; 
The  longest  scene  as  Time  is  fleet  — 
The  curtain  soon  will  close  the  kiss. 

And  thou,  too  vain,  too  flattered  mime, 
Drink  deep  the  pleasures  of  thy  day, 
f  No  ruin  is  too  mean  for  Time  — 
The  curtain  soon  will  close  the  play. 


WALTER  J.  KINGSLEY 


LO,  THE  PRESS  AGENT 

By  many  names  men  call  me  — 

Press  agent,  publicity  promoter,  faker; 

Ofttimes  the  short  and  simple  liar. 

Charles  A.  Dana  told  me 

I  was  a  buccaneer 

On  the  high  seas  of  journalism. 

Many  a  newspaper  business  manager 

Has  charged  me 

With  selling  his  space 

Over  his  head.  ^ 

Every  one  loves  me 

When  I  get  his  name  into  print  — 

For  this  is  an  age  of  publicity 

And  he  who  bloweth  not  his  own  horn 

The  same  shall  not  be  blown. 

I  have  sired,  nursed  and  reared 

Many  reputations. 

Few  men  or  women  have  I  found 

Scornful  of  praise  or  blame 

In  the  press. 

The  folk  of  the  stage 

Live  on  publicity, 

Yet  to  the  world  they  pretend  to  dislike  it, 

Though  wildly  to  me  they  plead  for  it,  cry  for  it, 

Ofttimes  do  that  for  it 

Which  must  make  the  God  Notoriety 

Grin  at  the  weakness  of  mortals. 

I  hold  a  terrible  power  « 

And  sometimes  my  own  moderation 

Amazes  me, 

27 


For  I  can  abase  as  well  as  elevate, 
Tear  down  as  well  as  build  up. 
I  know  all  the  ways  of  fair  speaking 
And  can  lead  my  favorites 
To  fame  and  golden  rewards. 
There  are  a  thousand  channels 
Through  which  press  agency  can  exploit 
Its  star  or  its  movement 
Never  obvious  but  like  the  submarine 
Submersible  beneath  the  sea 
Of  publicity. 

But  I  know,  too,  of  the  ways 
That  undo  in  Manhattan. 
There  are  bacilli  of  rumor 
That  slip  through  the  finest  of  filters 
And  defy  the  remedial  serums 
Of  angry  denial. 
Pin  a  laugh  to  your  tale 
When  stalking  your  enemy 
And  not  your  exile  nor  your  death 
Will  stay  the  guffaws  of  merriment 
As  the  story  flies 
Through  the  Wicked  Forties 
And  on  to  the  "  Road." 
Laughter  gives  the  rumor  strong  wings. 
Truly  the  press  agent, 
Who  knows  his  psychology, 
Likewise  his  New  York 
In  all  of  its  ramifications, 
And  has  a  nimble  wit, 
Can  play  fast  and  loose 
With  the  lives  of  many. 
28 


Nevertheless  he  has  no  great  reward, 

And  most  in  the  theatre 

Draw  fatter  returns  than  he. 

Yet  is  he  called  upon  to  make  the  show, 

To  save  the  show, 

But  never  is  he  given  credit 

Comparable  to  that  which  falls 

Upon  the  slightest  jester  or  singer  or  dancer 

Who  mugs,  mimes,  or  hoofs  in  a  hit. 

Yet  is  the  press  agent  happy ; 

He  loves  his  work : 

It  has  excitement  and  intrigue; 

And  to  further  the  cause  of  beautiful  women, 

To  discover  the  wonderful  girls  of  the  theatre, 

And  lead  them  in  progress  triumphal 

Till  their  names  outface  the  jealous  night, 

On  Broadway,  in  incandescents, 

Is  in  itself  a  privilege. 

That  compensates 

For  the  wisdom  of  the  cub  reporter, 

The  amusement  of  the  seasoned  editor, 

Shredding  the  cherished  story 

And  uprooting  the  flourishing  "  plant  " ; 

Makes  one  forgive 

The  ingratitude  of  artists  arrived. 

They  who  do  not  love  me 

I  hope  to  have  fear  me ; 

There  is  only  one  hell, 

And  that  is  to  be  disregarded. 


FIRST  NIGHTS 

August  heat  cannot  weaken  nor  flivvers  stale 

Our  first-night  expectance  when  the  new  season  opens. 

Come  on,  boys  and  girls,  the  gang's  all  here; 

The  Death  Watch  is  ready  in  orchestra  chairs 

Still  shrouded  in  summer's  cool  slip  pajamas, 

And  the  undertakers  of  stage  reputations 

Are  gathered  to  chatter  about  author  and  players, 

And  give  them  and  their  work  disrespectful  interment 

By  gleefully  agreeing  in  that  sage  Broadway  saying: 

"  Oh,  what  an  awful  oil  can  that  piece  turned  out  to 

be!" 

It's  hard  when  the  Chanters  of  Death-House  Blues 
Have  to  turn  to  each  other  and  reluctantly  murmur: 
"  I'm  afraid  it's  a  hit  —  the  poor  fish  is  lucky." 
First-nighters  are  the  theatre's  forty-niners, 
Making  the  early  rush  to  new  dramatic  gold  fields, 
And  usually  finding  them  barren. 
Often  must  it  madden  the  playwright  to  offer  his  ideals 
To  an  audience  whose  personnel  would  for  the  most 

part 

Regard  an  ideal  as  a  symptom  of  sickness ; 
To  show  sweetness  and  beauty  and  color 
To  those  whose  knowledge  of  tints  is  confined 
To  the  rouge  and  the  lip  stick  on  dressers; 
To  pioneer  in  playwrighting,  to  delve  deep  into  mind, 
When  all  that  the  first-nighters  ask  is  plain  entertain 
ment. 

How  much  of  the  great,  wholesome  public,  hard-work 
ing  and  normal, 

To  whom  the  final  appeal  must  be  made 

30 


Frequents  our  first  nights  on  Broadway? 
Costumers,  friends  of  the  author,  and  critics, 
Scene  painters,  all  of  the  tradesmen  concerned, 
Kinsfolk  of  mummers  even  to  the  third  generation, 
Wine  agents,  hot-house  ladies,  unemployed  players, 
Hearty  laughers  or  ready  weepers  "  planted." 
Most  of  them  there  prepare  for  a  funeral ; 
Their  diversion  is  nodding  to  friends  and  acquaintances, 
And  he  or  she  who  nods  the  most  times 
Is  thereby  the  greatest  first-nighter. 
Some  managers  open  to  hand-picked  audiences, 
Others  strive  to  escape  the  regulars; 
But  the  majority  seek  for  the  standardized  premier  faces 
That  really  mean  so  little  in  the  life  of  the  play. 
Listen  to  the  comments  during  intermission : 
"  It  doesn't  get  over !  "      "  It's  a  flop !  " 
11  What  atmosphere !  "     "  An  absolute  steal !  " 
"  Such  originality!  "     "  Not  a  bit  life-like!  " 
"  That  author  has  a  wonderful  memory !  " 
"  He  copped  that  lyric  from  Irving  Berlin!  " 
"  He's  as  funny  as  a  crutch  or  a  cry  for  help !  " 
"  They  grabbed  that  number  in  London!  " 
"  She's  one  of  his  tigers!" 

"From  a  Lucile  model,  my  dear,  but  home-made!" 
"  I  can't  hand  him  anything  on  this  one!  " 
"  Some  heavy-sugar  papa  backed  the  production!  " 
"  Isn't  my  boy  wonderful!  " 

"  Yes,  but  my  girl  is  running  away  with  the  piece!  " 
"  If  you  like  this,  you're  not  well!  " 
"What  could  be  sweeter!" 

"  What  large  feet  she  has !  "     "  His  Adam's  apple  an 
noys  me!  " 


"  She  must  get  her  clothes  on  Avenue  A!  " 

"  They  say  she  was  born  there!  " 

"  What  an  awful  sunburn !  " 

"Best   thing  in   years!"     "The  storehouse   for   this 

one!" 

"  Did  you  catch  her  going  up  in  her  lines  ?  " 
"  Yes,  and  he's  fluffing  all  over  the  place!  " 
"  Splendidly  produced,  don't  you  think?  " 
"  I  think  the  stage  direction  is  rotten!  " 
So  I  suggest  the  old  Roman  fashion  of  presenting, 
The  artists,  like  gladiators  crying: 
"  We,  who  are  about  to  die,  salute  you !  " 


THE  DRAMATIST 

I've  put  one  over  at  last! 

My  play  with  the  surprise  finish  is  a  bear. 

Al  Woods  wants  to  read  all  of  my  scripts; 

Georgie  Cohan  speaks  to  me  as  an  equal 

And  the  office  boy  swings  the  gate  without  being  asked. 

I  don't  care  if  the  manager's  name  is  as  large  as  the 

play's 

Or  if  the  critics  are  featured  all  over  the  ash  cans. 
I'm  going  to  get  mine  and  I'm  going  to  live. 
A  Rolls-Royce  for  me  and  trips  "  up  the  road," 
Long  Beach  and  pretty  girls,  big  eats  at  the  Ritz 
And  the  ice  pitcher  for  the  fellows  who  snubbed  me. 
How  the  other  reporters  laughed 

When  I  showed  my  first  script  and  started  to  peddle! 
"  Stick  to  the  steady  job,"  they  advised. 
"  Play  writing  is  too  big  a  gamble; 
It  will  never  keep  your  nose  in  the  feed  bag." 
I  wrote  a  trunkful  of  junk;  did  a  play  succeed, 
I  immediately  copied  the  fashion ; 
Like  a  pilfering  tailor  I  stole  the  new  models. 
Kind  David  Belasco,  with  his  face  in  the  gloom, 
And  mine  brightly  lighted,  said  ministerially: 
"  Rather  crude  yet,  my  boy,  but  the  way  to  write  a  play 
Is  to  write  plays  from  sunrise  to  sunset 
And  rewrite  them  long  after  midnight. 
Try,  try,  try,  my  boy,  and  God  bless  you." 
Broke  and  disgusted,  I  became  a  play  reader 
And  the  "  yessir  man  "  to  a  manager. 
I  was  a  play  doctor,  too. 
A  few  of  my  patients  lived 

33 


And  I  learned  about  drama  from  them. 

How  we  gutted  the  scripts ! 

Grabbing  a  wonderful  line,  a  peach  of  a  scene, 

A  gem  of  a  finish 

Out  of  the  rubbish  that  struggling  poor  devils 

Borrowed  money  to  typewrite  and  mail  to  us. 

It's  like  opening  oysters  looking  for  pearls, 

But  pearls  are  to  be  found  and  out  of  the  shell  heaps 

Come  jewels  that,  polished  and  set  by  a  clever  artificer, 

Are  a  season's  theatrical  wonder. 

Finally  came  my  own  big  idea. 

I  wrote  and  rewrote  and  cast  and  recast, 

Convinced  the  manager,  got  a  production. 

Here  am  I  young  and  successful, 

And  Walter  and  Thomas  and  Selwyn  have  nothing  on 

me. 

Press  agents  are  hired  to  praise  me. 
Watch  for  my  next  big  sensation, 

»    But  meanwhile  I  hope  that  that  play-writing  plumber, 
Who  had  an  idea  and  nothing  else, 
Never  sees  this  one. 


34 


TYPES 

They've  got  me  down  for  a  hick,  bo, 

Sam  Harris  says  I'm  the  best  boob  in  the  biz, 

And  that  no  manager  will  cast  me  for  anything  else. 

Curses  on  my  hit  in  "  'Way  Down  East  " 

That  handcuffs  me  forever  to  yokels, 

And  me  a  better  character  actor  than  Corse  Payton ! 

That's  how  it  is  they're  stuck  on  types, 

And  the  wise  guy  who  plays  anything 

Isn't  given  a  look-in. 

Listen  to  me,  young  feller,  and  don't  ever 

Let  'em  tab  you  for  keeps  as  a  type. 

It's  curtains  for  a  career  as  sure  as  you're  born. 

Why,  there's  actors  sentenced  to  comedy  dog  parts, 

To  Chinks,  to  Wops,  to  Frenchmen  and  fluffs. 

There  ain't  no  release  for  them. 

The  producers  and  managers  can  see  only  one  angle, 

And  you  may  be  a  Mansfield  or  Sothern. 

It's  outrageous  that's  what  it  is,  that  make-up 

And  character  acting  should  be  thrown  in  the  discard. 

You  can  sit  in  an  agent's  office  for  months 

Before  a  part  comes  along  that  you  fit  without  fixin'. 

This  natural  stuff  puts  the  kibosh  on  art 

And  a  stock  training  ain't  what  it  used  to  be. 

Say,  if  ever  I  rise  to  be  hind  legs  of  a  camel 

Or  a  bloodhound  chasing  Eliza,  I'll  kick  or  I'll  bite 

The  type-choosing  manager. 


35 


GEORGE  M.  COHAN 

Blessed  be  Providence 
That  gave  us  our  Cohan  ; 
Irreverent, 

Resourceful,  prolific,  steady-advancing 
George  M. 
Nothing  in  life 
Better  becomes  him 
Than  his  earliest  choice 
Of  Jerry  and  Helen 
For  father  and  mother; 
Bred  in  the  wings  and  the  dressing  room, 
The  theatre  alley  his  playground, 
I  Hotels  his  home  and  his  schoolhouse, 
Blessed  with  a  wonderful  sister, 
And  in  love  with  a  violin. 
From  baby  days  used  to  the  footlights, 
With  infrequent  teachers  of  book  lore 
In  the  cities  of  lengthy  engagements 
Showing  him  pages  of  learning 
That  he  turned  from  to  life's  open  volume, 
Acquiring  indelible  lessons, 
Loyalty,  candor,  clear  seeing, 
Sincerity,  plain  speaking,  love  of  his  own, 
Passion  for  all  things  American. 
From  Jerry,  his  father, 
Came  Celtic  humor,  delight  in  the  dance, 
And  devotion  to  things  of  the  theatre; 
From  Helen,  his  mother, 
Depth,  Celtic  devotion  to  things  of  the  spirit, 
Fineness  of  soul. 

36 


Early  he  turned  from  his  fiddle 
To  write  popular  songs 
And  tunes  so  whistly  and  catchy 
That  the  music  of  a  child 
Enraptured  the  nation. 
Then  followed  comedy  sketches, 
Gay  little  pieces  that  made  public 
And  player-folk  chatter  of  Cohan. 
Later,  essaying  the  musical  comedy, 
He  wrote  "  Running  for  Office," 
To  be  followed  by  that  impudent 
Classic  of  fresh  young  America, 
"  Little  Johnnie  Jones." 
One  followed  another  in  rapid  succession ; 
His  name  grew  a  cherished  possession, 
And  ever  his  dancing  delighted. 
His  manner  of  singing  and  speaking 
Provoked  to  endless  imitation. 
His  personality  became  better  known 
Then  the  President's. 
Always  he  soared  in  ambition 
And,  becoming  a  lord  of  the  theatre, 
He  ventured  on  serious  drama, 
And  out  of  his  wisdom  and  watching 
Wrote  masterful  plays, 
Envisaging  the  types  of  our  natives. 
Truly  a  genius, 

Genius  in  friendship,  genius  in  stagecraft, 
Genius  in  life ! 
Even  in  choosing  a  partner 
He  fattened  his  average, 
Batting  four  hundred 
37 


By  taking  a  kindred  irreverent  soul, 

Graduated  out  of  the  whirlpool 

That  wrecks  all  but  the  strongest, 

Born  on  the  eastern  edge 

Of  Manhattan, 

Sam  H.  Harris,  man  of  business, 

Who  to  the  skill  of  the  trader 

Adds  the  joy  in  life 

And  the  sense  of  humor, 

Coupled  with  pleasure  in  giving 

And  helping 

That  Cohan  demands  of  his  pals. 

Together  they  plan  wonderful  projects, 

And  the  artist  soul 

And  the  soul  of  commerce 

Are  an  unbeatable  union. 

Best  of  all  about  Cohan 

Is  his  congenital  manliness. 

He  sees  Americans 

As  our  soil  and  our  air  and  our  water 

Have  made  them ; 

Types  as  distinct  as  the  Indian. 

He  follows  no  school, 

Knows  little  of  movements  artistic. 

A  lonely  creator, 

His  friends  are  not  writing  men, 

Reformers,  uplifters  or  zealots. 

He  writes  the  life  he  has  lived 

So  fully  and  zestfully, 

And  over  it  all  plays  like  sheet  lightning 

A  beneficent  humor. 

Growth  is  his  hall-mark, 

38 


Hard  work  his  chief  recreation ; 

Not  Balzac  could  toil  with  labor  titanic 

More  terribly. 

George  M.  Cohan, 

Excelling  in  everything  — 

Beloved  son,  brother,  father,  partner,  friend, 

Our  best-beloved  man  of  the  theatre. 


39 


DAVID  BELASCO 

King  David  of  old  slew  the  Philistines; 

Our  David  has  made  them  admirers  and  patrons; 

He  has  numbered  the  people 

Night  after  night  in  his  theatres. 

Will  he  ever,  I  wonder,  send  forth  for  the  Shunam- 

mite? 

Many  there  be  who  would  answer  his  calling, 
For  he  has  shown  ambitious  fair  women 
To  acting's  high  places. 
As  Rodin  in  marble  saw  wondrous  creations 
To  be  freed  by  the  chisel, 
So  Belasco  in  immature  genius  and  beauty 
Sees  the  resplendent  star  to  be  kindled 
At  his  own  steady  beacon. 
Too  varied  a  mind  for  our  comprehension, 
Too  big  and  too  broad  and  too  subtle 
To  be  understood  of  the  bourgeois  American 
Whom  he  has  led  decade  after  decade 
By  a  nose  ring  artistic. 
Capable  of  everything,  he  has  worked 
With  the  ease  of  a  master,  giving  the  public 
Marvelous  detail,   unfailing  sensation  and   poses  pic 
torial  ; 

Preferring  the  certain  success  to  arduous  striving 
For  the  more  excellent  things  of  the  future. 
Like  David  his  forebear,  a  king  but  no  prophet, 
Amazingly  wise  in  his  own  generation. 
A  wizard  in  art  of  the  everyday, 
t  Lord  of  the  spotlight  and  dimmer, 


40 


But  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope,   the  inviolable 
shade 

Of  what  in  his  dreams  Oriental 

He  fain  would  do,  did  not  necessity  drive  him. 

His  the  fascination  of  a  great  personality. 

Who  knoweth  not  him  of  the  clerical  collar? 

Hair  of  the  sage  and  eyes  of  the  poet, 

Features  perfectly  drawn  and  as  mobile 

As  those  of  the  inspired  actor; 

With  speech  so  much  blander  than  honey 

And  insight  that  maketh  his  staged  stumbling  in  bar 
gains 

Cover  the  shrewdness  of  a  masterly  trader. 

None  better  than  he  knoweth  the  crowd  and  its  likings, 

As  to  using  the  patter  of  drama  artistic, 

That's  where  he  lives. 

With  incense  and  color  and  scenery 

He  refilleth  the  bottle  of  art  so  that  the  contents 

Go  twice  better  than  in  the  original  package. 

Thanks  be  to  David  for  joy  in  the  playhouse. 

Wizard,  magician,  necromancer  of  switchboards, 

He  hath  woven  spells  from  the  actual, 

Keeping  ideals  and  ideas  well  in  the  background. 

Like  Gautier,  these  things  delight  him: 

Gold,  marble  and  purple;  brilliance,  solidity,  color. 

He  can  stage  Tiffany's  jewels  but  not  Maeterlinck's 
bees. 

Deep  in  his  soul  there  are  tempests 

Revealed  in  the  storms  of  his  dramas  — 

Sandstorm  and  snowstorm,  rainstorm  and  hurricane. 

That  nature  revealed  in  its  subtle  reactions 

Would  show  in  its  deeps  the  soul  of  an  Angelo 

41 


Subdued  to  success  and  dyed  by  democracy. 
Opportunism  hath  made  him 
An  artistic  materialist. 
One  work  remains  for  David  Belasco, 
And  that  is  to  stage  with  patient  precision 
A  cross  section  in  drama  of  his  own  self-surprising, 
Making  the  world  sit  up  and  take  notice 
With    what    "  masterly    detail,"    "  unfailing    atmos 
phere," 
"  Startling  reality  "  he  can  star  David  Belasco. 


LO,  THE  HEADLINER 

I  was  not  raised  for  vaudeville. 

Father  and  mother  were  veteran  legits; 

They  loved  the  Bard  and  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons." 

I  was  born  on  a  show  boat  on  the  Cumberland ; 

I  was  carried  on  as  a  child 

When  the  farm  girl  revealed  her  shame 

On  the  night  of  the  snowstorm. 

The  old  folks  died  with  grease  paint  on  their  faces. 

I  did  a  little  of  everything 

Even  to  staking  out  a  pitch  in  a  street  fair. 

Hiram  Grafter  taught  me  to  ballyhoo 

And  to  make  openings. 

I  stole  the  business  of  Billy  Sunday 

And  imitated  William  Jennings  Bryan. 

I  became  famous  in  the  small  towns. 

One  day  Poli  heard  me  — 

He's  the  head  of  the  New  England  variety  circuit. — 

"  Cul,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  born  monologist. 

Where  you  got  that  stuff  I  don't  know, 

But  you  would  be  a  riot  in  the  two-a-day. 

Quit  this  hanky-panky 

And  I'll  make  you  a  headliner." 

Well,  I  fell  for  his  line  of  talk 

Like  the  sod  busters  had  fallen  for  mine. 

Aaron  Hoffman  wrote  me  a  topical  monologue; 

Max  Marx  made  me  a  suit  of  clothes; 

And  Lew  Dockstader  wised  me  up 

On  how  to  jockey  my  laughs. 

I  opened  in  Hartford; 

Believe  me,  I  was  some  scream. 

43 


I  gave  them  gravy,  and  hokum, 

And  when  they  ate  it  up  I  came  through 

With  the  old  jasbo, 

Than  which  there  is  nothing  so  efficacious 

In  vaudeville,  polite  or  otherwise. 

The  first  thing  I  did  I  hollered  for  more  dough, 

And  Poli  says: 

"  That's  what  I  get  for  feeding  you  meat, 

But  you  are  a  riot  all  right,  all  right, 

So  I  guess  you  are  on  for  more  kale." 

I  kept  getting  better. 

I  got  so's  I  could  follow  any  act  at  all 

And  get  my  laughs. 

And  he  who  getteth  his  laughs 

Is  greater  than  he  who  taketh  a  city. 

At  last  the  Palace  Theatre  sent  for  me 

And  I  signed  up  for  a  week. 

They  kept  me  two. 

I  am  a  headliner; 

I  stand  at  the  corner  of  Forty-seventh  Street 

And  Little  Old  Broadway; 

Throw  out  my  chest, 

Call  the  agents  and  vaudeville  magnates 

By  their  first  names. 

I  am  a  HEADLINER  with  a  home  in  Freeport. 


44 


MURDOCK  PEMBERTON 


THE  SCREEN 

From  midnight  till  the  following  noon 

I  stand  in  shadow, 

Just  a  splotch  of  white, 

Unnoted  by  the  cleaning  crew 

Who've  spent  their  hours  of  toil 

That  I  might  live  again. 

Yet  they  hold  no  reverence  for  my  charms, 

And  if  they  pause  amid  their  work 

They  do  not  glance  at  me; 

All  their  admiration,  all  their  awe, 

Is  for  the  gold  and  scarlet  trappings  of  the  home 

That's  built  to  house  my  wonders; 

Or  for  the  gorgeous  murals  all  around, 

Which  really,  after  all, 

Were  put  in  place  as  most  lame  substitutes, 

Striving  to  soothe  the  patron's  ire 

For  those  few  moments  when  my  face  is  dark. 

Yes,  men  have  built  a  palace  sheltering  me, 

And  as  the  endless  ocean  washes  on  its  stretch  of  beach 

The  tides  of  people  flow  to  me. 

All  things  I  am  to  everyone; 

The  newsboys,  shopgirls, 

And  all  starved  souls 

Who've  clutched  at  life  and  missed, 

See  in  my  magic  face, 

The  lowly  rise  to  fame  and  palaces, 

See  virtue  triumph  every  time 

And  rich  and  wicked  justly  flayed. 

Old  men  are  tearful 

47 


When  I  show  them  what  they  might  have  been. 

And  others,  not  so  old, 

Bask  in  the  sunshine  of  my  fairy  tales. 

The  lovers  see  new  ways  to  woo ; 

And  wives  see  ways  to  use  old  brooms. 

Some  nights  I  see  the  jeweled  opera  crowd 

Who  seem  aloof  but  inwardly  are  fond  of  me 

Because  I've  caught  the  gracious  beauty  of  their  pets. 

Then  some  there  are  who  watch  my  changing  face 

To  catch  new  history's  shadow 

As  it  falls  from  day  to  day. 

And  at  the  noiseless  tramp  of  soldier  feet, 

In  time  to  music  of  the  warring  tribes, 

The  shadow  men  across  my  face 

Seem  living  with  the  hope  or  dread 

Of  those  who  watch  them  off  to  wars. 

j 

In  sordid  substance  I  am  but  a  sheet, 

A  fabric  of  some  fireproof  stuff. 

And  yet,  in  every  port  where  ships  can  ride, 

In  every  nook  where  there  is  breath  of  life, 

Intrepid  men  face  death 

To  catch  for  me  the  fleeting  phases  of  the  world 

Lest  I  lose  some  charming  facet  of  my  face. 

And  all  the  masters  of  all  time 

Have  thrummed  their  harps 

And  bowed  their  violins 

To  fashion  melodies  that  might  be  played 

The  while  I  tell  my  tales. 

0  you  who  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature, 
Behold  my  cosmic  scope: 

1  am  the  mirror  of  the  whirling  globe. 

48 


BROADWAY  —  NIGHT 

I  saw  the  rich  in  motor  cars 

Held  in  long  lines 

Until  cross-streams  of  cars  flowed  by; 

I  saw  young  boys  in  service  clothes 

And  flags  flung  out  from  tradesmen's  doors; 

I  saw  some  thousand  drifting  men 

Some  thousand  aimless  women; 

I  saw  some  thousand  wearied  eyes 

That   caught   no   sparkle   from   the   myriad   lights 

Which  blazoned  everywhere; 

I  saw  a  man  stop  in  his  walk 

To  pet  an  old  black  cat. 


49 


MATINEE 

They  pass  the  window 

Where  I  sit  at  work, 

In  silks  and  furs 

And  boots  and  hats 

All  of  the  latest  mode. 

They  chatter  as  they  pass 

Of  various  things 

But  hardly  hear  the  words  they  speak 

So  tense  are  they 

Upon  a  life  they  know  begins  for  them 

At  2:15. 

Within  the  theatre 

The  air  is  pungent  with  the  mixed  perfumes, 

More  scents  than  ever  blew  from  Araby. 

And  there's  a  rapid  hum 

Of  some  six  hundred  secrets; 

Then  sudden  hush 

As  tongues  and  violins  cease. 

The  play  is  on. 

There  is  a  hastening  of  the  beat 
Of  some  six  hundred  hearts. 
There're  twitches  soon  about  the  lips, 
And  later  copious  tears 
From  waiting  eyes; 
But  all  this  time 

There  are  six  hundred  separate  souls 
The  playwright's  puppet  has  to  woo, 
50 


To  win,  to  humor,  or  to  cajole, 

Until,  with  master  stroke 

Of  Devil  knowledge, 

Or  old  Adam's, 

He  crushes  in  his  manful  arms 

The  languid  heroine 

And  forcing  back  her  golden  head 

Implants  the  kiss. 

And  then  against  his  heaving  breast 

The  hero  feels  the  beatings  of  six  hundred  hearts 

In  mighty  unison, 

And  on  his  lips  there  is  the  pulse 

Of  that  one  lingering  kiss 

Returned  six-hundred  fold. 


PAVLOWA 

I  was  working  on  The  Daily  News 

When  I  first  heard  of  her, 

And  from  that  time 

Until  the  day  she  came  to  town 

I  longed  to  see  her  dance. 

The  night  the  dancer  and  her  ballet  came 

The  Desk  assigned  me  to  my  nightly  run 

Of  hotels,  clubs,  and  undertakers'  shops; 

I  was  so  green 

I  had  not  learned 

The  art  of  using  telephones 

To  make  it  seem 

That  I  was  hot  upon  the  trail  of  news 

While  loafing  otherwhere. 

How  could  I  do  my  trick 

And  also  see  her  dance? 

So  I  left  bread  and  butter  flat, 

To  feast  my  eyes,  which  had  been  prairie-fed, 

Upon  this  vision  from  another  world. 

I'd  seen  the  wind 
Go  rippling  over  seas  of  wheat; 
I'd  stood  at  night  within  a  wood 
And  felt  the  pulse  of  growing  things 
Upon  the  April  air; 
I'd  seen  the  hawks  arise  and  soar; 
And  dragon-flies 
At  sunrise  over  misty  pools  — 
But  all  these  things  had  never  known  a  name 
Until  I  saw  Pavlowa  dance. 
52 


Next  day  the  editor  explained 

That  although  art  was  —  art, 

He'd  found  a  boy  to  take  my  place. 

The  days  that  followed 

When  I  walked  the  town 

Seeking  for  some  sort  of  work, 

The  haze  of  Indian  Summer 

Blended  with  the  dream 

Of  that  one  night's  magic. 

And  though  I  needed  work  to  keep  alive 

My  thoughts  would  go  no  further 

Than  Pavlowa  as  the  maid  Giselle  .  .  . 

Then  cold  days  came, 

And  found  the  dream  a  fabric  much  too  thin ; 

And  finally  a  job, 

And  I  was  back  to  stomach  fare. 

But  through  the  years 

I've  nursed  the  sacrifice, 

Counting  it  a  tribute 

Unlike  all  the  things 

That  Kings  and  Queens  have  laid  before  her  feet ; 

And  wishing  somehow  she  might  know 

About  the  price 

The  cub  reporter  paid 

To  see  Pavlowa  dance. 

And  then  by  trick  of  time, 
We  came  together  at  the  Hippodrome; 
And  every  day  I  saw  her  dance. 
One  morning  in  the  darkened  wings 
I  saw  a  big-eyed  woman  in  a  filmy  thing 
53 


Go  through  the  exercises 

Athletes  use  when  training  for  a  team ; 

And  from  a  stage-hand  learned 

That  this  Pavlowa,  incomparable  one, 

Out  of  every  day  spent  hours 

On  elementary  practice  steps. 

And  now  somehow 

I  can  not  find  the  heart 

To  tell  Pavlowa  of  the  price  I  paid 

To  see  her  dance. 


54 


THE  OLD  CHORUS  MAN 

He's  played  with  Booth, 

He's  shared  applause  with  Jefferson, 

He's  run  the  gamut  of  the  soul 

Imparting  substance  to  the  shadow  men 

Masters  have  fashioned  with  their  quills 

And  set  upon  the  boards. 

Great  men-of-iron  were  his  favored  roles, 

(Once  he  essayed  Napoleon). 

And  now,  unknowing,  he  plays  his  greatest  tragedy 

Dressed  in  a  garb  to  look  like  service  clothes, 

Cheeks  lit  by  fire  —  of  make-up  box, 

He  marches  with  a  squad  of  sallow  youths 

And  bare-kneed  girls, 

Keeping  step  to  tattoo  of  the  drums 

Beat  by  some  shapely  maids  in  tights, 

While  close  by  in  the  silent  streets 

There  march  long  files  of  purposed  men 

Who  go  to  death,  perhaps, 

For  the  same  cause  he  travesties 

Within  the  playhouse  walls. 


55 


BLUCH  LANDOLF'S  TALE 

When  I  was  old  enough  to  walk 
I  rode  a  circus  horse; 

My  first  teeth  held  me  swinging  from  a  high  trapeze. 
About  the  age  young  men  go  out  to  colleges 
I  trudged  the  sanded  vasts  of  Northern  Africa, 
Top-mounter  in  a  nomad  Arab  tumbling  troupe. 
I  was  Christian,  that  is  white  and  Infidel, 
So  old  Abdullah  took  me  in  his  tent 
And  stripping  off  my  white  man's  clothes 
Painted  me  with  dye  made  from  the  chestnut  hulls, 
Laughing  the  while  about  the  potency  of  juice 
That  would  prove  armour  'gainst  some  zealot's  scimi 
tar. 

Four  camels  made  our  caravan 
And  these  we  also  used  for  "  props." 
When  we  played  a  Morocco  town 
The  chieftain  met  us  at  the  hamlet's  edge 
Asked  of  Abdullah  what  his  mission  there, 
Then  let  us  enter 

He  leading  our  caravan  to  the  chieftain's  hut, 
Where  we  sat  upon  the  sand 
The  thirty  odd  of  us 
Surrounded  by  as  many  lesser  chiefs. 
The  hookah  solemnly  was  passed  around 
And  then  the  hamlet  chief  would  speak ; 
"  Stranger,  why  have  you  forsaken  home 
And  drawn  believers  after  you, 
You  bear  no  spices,  oil,  or  woven  cloth, 
No  jewels  nor  any  merchantry?  " 


And  then  Abdullah: 
"  True,  Allah's  precious  son, 
We  trade  in  naught  men  feed  their  bellies  on 
But  we  have  wares  to  thrill  brave  men, 
To  make  your  youth  see  what  use  bodies  are, 
To  make  your  women  blush 
That  they  have  no  such  men." 

"  What  are  these  magic  wares?  " 

"  Why  we  have  here  an  Arab  youth 
Who  seems  possessed  of  wings, 
Jumping  three  camels  in  a  row." 

"  So!     In  this  very  village  there's  a  lad 

Who  jumps  four  camels 

With  half  the  wind  it  takes  you,  telling  of  your  boy." 

Scoff  followed  boast  and  back  again 

Until  the  chief  arose, 

Saying  to  the  lesser  chiefs 

That  they  should  call  the  local  tribe 

To  meet  beside  the  caravanserai 

Before  another  sun  went  down 

To  see  if  these  vain  wandering  men 

Could  do  one  half  the  deeds  they  boasted. 

So  we  met  at  sundown, 
Our  brown  men  stripped 
Except  for  linen  clouts. 

We  tumbled,  jumped,  made  human  pyramids, 
And  whirled  as  only  Dervish  whirl. 

57 


Then  as  a  climax  the  village  boy  essayed 

To  span  the  four  trained  camels 

Who  at  Abdullah's  soft-spoke  word 

Moved  just  enough  apart  to  make  the  boy  fall  short. 

And  then  our  sinewed  lad  would  make  the  leap, 

The  camels  crowding  close  together 

At  another  soft  command. 

Our  lad  making  good  his  jump, 

The  populace  would  grant  our  greater  skill; 

A  goatskin  filled  with  wine, 

And  honey  mixed  with  melted  butter 

Was  offered  us  within  the  caravanserai. 

Then  we  moved  out  beyond  the  town 

And  pitched  our  tents  of  camels'  hair, 

Rising  before  the  sun  to  face  the  friendless  desert  wastes 

Until  we  reached  another  habitation  on  the  camel  trail, 

I  (who  played  the  dumb  boy  of  the  tribe 

Lest  my  Christian  tongue  betray  me) 

Trudging  behind  with  all  the  salary  — 

Chasing  the  desert  after  two  new  sheep, 

Our  net  receipts  for  that  Moroccan  one-night  stand. 

Now  twice  each  day  within  the  Hippodrome 

I,  a  buffoon  in  absurd  clothes, 

Strive  to  make  the  thousands  laugh ; 

And  when  my  act  is  done 

There  comes  the  tread  of  camels'  feet, 

Followed  by  Slayman  Ali  and  his  Arab  troupe, 

Who  tumble,  jump  and  build  pyramids 

Before  a  canvas  Sphinx  upon  a  painted  desert 

When  I  saw  Slayman  last 
He  was  a  boy 

58 


Chasing  the  sheep  with  me 

Beneath  Morocco's  moon. 

Tell  me,  where  dwells  romance,  anyway? 

In  Manhattan,  or  Arabian,  nights? 


59 


PRE-EMINENCE 

I  once  knew  a  man 

Who'd  met  Duse, 

(Or  so  he  said) 

And  talked  with  her; 

As  she  came  down  a  windy  street 

He  turned  a  corner 

Headlong  into  her. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  Duse  said, 

"  I  was  looking  at  the  stars." 

My  envy  of  that  man 

Withstood  the  years 

Until  one  day  I  met  a  Dane 

Who'd  talked  with  Henrik  Ibsen: 

This  man,  with  head  bowed  to  the  wind, 

Was  walking  up  a  Stockholm  way 

When  'round  the  corner  came  the  seer, 

And  he  plumped  into  him. 

And  that  great  mind 

Whose  thinking  moved  the  world 

Surveyed  my  friend 

Through  his  big  eyes 

And  slowly  spoke : 

"  Since  when  have  codfish  come  to  land?  " 

With  all  the  awe 

One  has  for  those  who've  known  the  great, 
These  two  I've  envied 
Until  the  other  day 

When  blundering  'round  behind  the  scenes 
I  stepped  upon  Pavlowa's  toe. 
60 


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